


swallowed by a vicious, vengeful sea

by imadetheline



Series: Breathe In, Breathe Out [21]
Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars Original Trilogy
Genre: Angst, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Angst with a Happy Ending, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Father-Son Relationship, FebuWhump2021, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Torture, Psychological Torture, Torture
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-23
Updated: 2021-02-23
Packaged: 2021-03-13 15:14:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,659
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29653233
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/imadetheline/pseuds/imadetheline
Summary: febuwhump day twenty-one - torture
Relationships: Luke Skywalker & Darth Vader
Series: Breathe In, Breathe Out [21]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2140389
Comments: 18
Kudos: 92
Collections: Luke and Vader Bonding, febuwhump 2021





	swallowed by a vicious, vengeful sea

**Author's Note:**

> title from black water by of monsters and men

There’s darkness in his head. He doesn’t remember it not being there. It taints everything like a disease, wrapping around his thoughts, his memories. Luke barely remembers where he is, what’s happened.  _ Cult, dark side, captured _ he whispers, over and over, desperately trying to remember, to hold onto reality. It’s harder every day.

The first time Leia had come for him, he’d smiled and grabbed for her hands, leaning on her shoulder, weak but determined. But then she’d warped into air, and he’d crashed to the floor, knees bruising against the metal as he remembered the darkness invading his thoughts, planting their own realities. He’d pushed back, ignored the next fake rescue, tried to tamp down the hope he normally clings to.

But then it was Han, and the guilt of Bespin had overwhelmed him.  _ It’s his fault, his fault, his fault,  _ what happened to Han. So Luke had stumbled to his friend, grasping desperately at hope. But Han had slipped through his fingers too, just like Leia, emptiness flooding to fill the gaps.

Realities are whatever the darkness molds them into in this cold cell, his limbs aching, mind forever spinning, trying to find something to anchor him to. But there’s nothing. Always someone comes for him, smiling just like he remembers, and every time he has to let go of more of his hope just to stay sane. Because if there’s any left when the next face appears, he shatters even more.

They’re not real. And Luke knows it, but everything hurts, and he just wants to believe in them, believe they could take him away from this place. But they fade every time he stumbles into their arms, leaving him collapsed on the metal floor with a bruised body and a bleeding heart. No one is coming, not really. The only people here to rescue him are the ones the drugs pumping through his veins conjure from mist and the inescapable darkness, their eyes lifeless.

The Force is a void. He can’t find warmth or light and his skin is just another trap. The food he’s given is ash, and time stops and starts at random, boxing him in. He’s left aware of the creeping darkness digging further into his thoughts for what feels like hours, the metal walls the only view. Or else time disappears, along with everything else, and that’s worse. Because then there are no walls, nothing at all; the darkness is all there is, drilling into his skin with needles and ice. Luke’s drowning in black water. It’s slowly filling his lungs, and he doesn’t dare hope for rescue or salvation.

And yet, some part of him won’t let him give up. It’s the same part of him that keeps putting up shields against the darkness. They shatter immediately, but still, he tries. And it’s this part that reaches out, screaming into the Force, into the gloom, pushing at the shadows until his mental fingers are torn and bleeding, shards of crystalized blood buried in the fabric of his mind.

Nothing changes. Leia, Han, Wedge, Chewbacca, Ben, his aunt and uncle: they all appear, smiling and alive and holding out their arms for him to fall into. His soul splits open, pouring aching grief into the waiting darkness each time he has to look at them and turn away from their warmth and light that he knows from experience will fade the moment he reaches for it. 

Sometimes he just stares until they dwindle into wisps of clawing darkness, trying to find the imperfections in their faces. It’s always the eyes, dull where they should be bright, the blues and browns tinted dark, shadows trying to hide behind his friends’ light. It makes it easier to push them away. But not easy enough. Their smiles are so sincere, and their hands warm and welcoming. Luke doesn’t know how long he’ll last until something inside snaps.

He can feel the darkness gathering up his pain, his grief, siphoning the emotions away, and with them, they’re taking his energy, the life in his veins. It feels like being exhausted but unable to sleep, limbs too weak to lift from the floor. It feels like the slow approach of death. And Luke’s sure that’s what it is. He can’t exist in this in-between forever before there’s nothing left. At least then, maybe he’ll stop seeing their faces.

<<<>>>

And yet, it doesn’t stop. Luke hears the door hiss open again, and he doesn’t look, doesn’t want to see who it is this time. He just curls further into himself, bruised fingers grasping at the dirty and torn fabric of his tunic. Why is it so cold?

The echoing sound of a respirator fills the silence, and for the first time in who knows how long, Luke wants to laugh, humorlessly and probably hysterically but still laugh. They really thought to try to trick him with the illusion of the man who claims to be his father, the man who had taken his hand, his lightsaber, and his naivete. Luke buries his face further into his arms, trying to will away the tendrils of dark smoke surely coalescing into the shape of Darth Vader. As if the Sith would care if Luke lived or died after he’d rejected his offer of ruling the Empire. No, even if he is Luke’s father, he’d surely be fine leaving his son here to splinter into shards of himself.

Maybe that’s the true pain of this apparition: the knowledge that his father doesn’t want him, that this could never possibly be the real Darth Vader, only a childish fantasy. Luke just wants it to go away.

Instead, it steps closer, heavy footsteps ringing against metal in the silence. They never do that; they never approach him. The shadows wait for Luke to reach for them in desperation, never moving to comfort him no matter how hard he sobs. Maybe they’ve just decided this is the best apparition they have to torture him, and given it all the tricks they have to cause more pain.

The respirator is only moving closer, slowly, like it’s hesitant. Luke doesn’t care anymore. Let the shadows do what they want. He doesn’t bother trying to pick up the shards of his shields that lay scattered around his mind. They never work anyway.

But then there’s something resting on his upper arm: heavy and gentle. And Luke hasn’t been touched without malice in he doesn’t remember how long. The shadows sit like a shroud on his skin, but they’re never tangible, never really there. This is different. He doesn’t want to look, doesn’t want to know what they’ve made to torture him now.

But a sob is building in his throat at the touch, and they’ve already won anyway. So he pulls his face from the cushion of his arms slowly, blinking at the unusual brightness of his cell.

And right next to him, kneeling, his hand pressed to Luke’s arm, is Darth Vader, his skeletal mask so close and his black suit absorbing stray light. Luke exhales shakily, blinking quickly to try to stop the building tears. But he can’t pull his gaze away from the red lenses. They’re so real. His fingers clench and unclench at his side, prosthetic and flesh alike. But Luke can’t see the lifeless eyes of the shadow behind the mask; he can’t find the imperfections, can’t prove to himself this isn’t real. So he screws his eyes tightly shut, blocking out the sight. His voice is hoarse, and his throat burns, but he tries anyway, “You’re not real.” It’s barely a whisper, the respirator easily louder in the silence, but he tries, tries to believe it, to let go of hope.

The hand on his arm tightens--not uncomfortably--for a moment and then loosens. The voice is like a gentle rumble when it speaks, “I am real, my son. I am here.”

Luke wants to scream--wants to dig his nails into his skin--instead of feeling the absolute soul-rending pain in his chest. He still doesn’t open his eyes as his voice catches on the tears choking him, “You’re  _ not _ real. He- He wouldn’t come for me.” And the words are the only thing he has left--even as they pull at the trembling strands of his sanity--because they are the only thing stopping him from falling into the shadow’s arms.

But the Force is bleeding, and Luke finally notices that the Shadow has been replaced by fire: seething, raging fire that’s powerless to burn under the weight of its guilt and grief.

The hand on his arm moves to cradle the back of his head, uncaring of the sweat-and-blood-caked strands. Luke turns into it against his will, faltering in the face of affection he barely remembers. 

“I will  _ always _ come for you, Luke.” The thundering voice catches in an all-too-human way. “My  _ son _ .” And there’s no reason for those two words. They’re said just because, laced with affection and awe, like the speaker doesn’t quite believe they’re allowed to say them.

And those words fall into the Force like an offering, like Luke is a god awaiting sacrifice at an altar of suffering and unfounded hope. But Luke isn’t a god, and he doesn’t know what to do with them: with words that promise the world, and more importantly, love.

So he does what any mortal would and lets the hope creep back in, wrenching open his eyes to stare at the mask that only means death. But Luke only sees twin suns where the lenses should be. So he reaches for the darkness, hope flickering like a candle in his chest. 

And this time, the darkness reaches back, with warm hands and a protective embrace instead of shadows and smoke. Luke falls into it like stepping off a cliff and doesn’t bother to try to stop himself. He doesn’t need to: his father catches him.

**Author's Note:**

> If you guys liked it leave a comment. They make my day! Seriously I love reading them so please leave me one cause they motivate me to write more! if you guys have ideas for other stories send me an ask on tumblr [here](https://www.tumblr.com/blog/imadetheline) or just yell about stuff with me. Info about me and all my other tumblrs are [here](https://infoabtmaddie.carrd.co/#)


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